Recessional
by Shtuff
Summary: Roxas/Namine. A love story in reverse.


**Disclaimer: **Sadly, Kingdom Hearts belongs to Square Enix and Disney. I own nothing but my own ideas.

**Wow, it has been years since I've written anything for Kingdom Hearts. Years. It's nice to be back. Hopefully, you all in this fandom will enjoy my humble little story.**

**Lyrics and the title are from Vienna Teng's gorgeous song _Recessional. _I recommend listening to it. **

**Please review! **

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* * *

But she's looking at me, straight to center._

_No room at all for any other thought. _

_And I know I don't want this. _

_Oh, I swear I don't want this. _

_There's a reason not to want this. _

_But I forgot…

* * *

_

She's smiling again—a familiar lift in the corner of her mouth that's both sad and loving, and it isn't enough. It will never be enough. How many times has he stared at the corner of her mouth, wishing the other one would rise and it would rush up to her eyes and light her up, free and happy. But that's wishful thinking and always has been.

Besides, it's too late.

"So," she says and lets the word occupy the space between them he has never noticed until now. Her hair is swept over her shoulder like always and her dress is cobalt blue—her favorite color, the one she always runs out of first when she paints or draws. Sweeping skies, rippling oceans, flower fields and blueberry bushes—his eyes used to be in the list of blue things she drew, but that was a long time ago.

"So," she says again and smiles her sad smile and he feels his heart clench in his chest.

_So do you take coffee with your cream? _

_What? Oh, sometimes. You know, I can't bear the taste of straight coffee It leaves such a disgusting aftertaste. So bitter. How can you stand it? _

_It keeps me awake. And it's nice and simple. Easy to make. _

_Well, I like foo foo coffee._

_Foo foo coffee? _

_Laughter. An upraised mug and her dancing eyes that captivate him. _

_Yes, foo foo coffee. And someday I shall coin the phrase and it will be put in the dictionary and I'll make a million dollars. _

_You'll need it, with your career. _

_Being a starving artist is a completely noble profession. _

_And being a doctor isn't? _

_Time will tell, I guess. It depends on what kind of doctor you want to be, Roxas. _

"So," he echoes softly and there's tears mounting an assault behind his eyes. He keeps his gaze on the bag at her feet, trying to remember what he still needs to say. There's too many words, and none of them will matter.

"Don't look so sad, Roxas," she tells him like she isn't leaving. He wants to be angry with her, but he still loves her too much.

"I'll try," he croaks and keeps his eyes carefully away from hers, knowing he won't find the same amount of devastation in them.

_I'll try, you said. You're not trying. _

_Because this is ridiculous. _

_No it isn't! It's art, art is never ridiculous. _

_Says the artist. _

_Hmph. Well, I needed to get you away from your textbooks for awhile. _

_Couldn't you have taken me out to eat or something like that? _

_I thought that was the boy's job. _

_I thought you said stuff like that was sexist. _

_Well, this is cheaper. _

_I have paint in places I don't even want to think about. And your floor looks like someone murdered a smurf. Is it supposed to look like that? _

_Laughter again, coming so easily, and with her blond hair and genteel smile she looks like a tie-dye angel. _

_Just keep going, Roxas. You promised. _

_He grumbles, but bound by his word he bends down again and promptly gets paint flung in his hair by a giggling blond. Suddenly, he doesn't mind as much. _

"This is for the best," she continues and he's tired of cliché parting words. He feels adrift in a sea—like the one she paints all the time, only its made of people with tired faces and hurried footsteps. Somewhere, a train whistle blows and reminds him the clock is ticking, has run out, and in a few agonizing minutes she'll be on a train and gone forever.

Helplessly, he shakes his head. He's never been good with words and now they have deserted him completely. "You don't know that."

She gives him that odd smile again and doesn't apologize. "Maybe I do."

He shakes his head again, feeling like a broken machine, a puppet with its strings cut. The future is a big gaping hole without her in it and he can't face it. "Stop it." He's not angry, he's not anything, and the words come out begging and broken.

Her eyes soften a little—remnants of the girl he loves and not the stranger he's saying good-bye to who thinks the world and paintings are more important than him.

"Roxas…" she pauses and he knows she won't say what he wants to hear, but his breath catches anyway. "I have to do this."

He sighs, fighting off a pang of silly disappointment. "I know. You've said that."

_Well, it's true! _

_I'm not saying I don't believe you. _

_But you're giving me that look! _

_What look? _

That _look! _

What _look? _

_The high-and-mighty-scientist-artists-are-delusional-simpletons-look. _

_I have a look like that? _

_Yes, Roxas, you do. _

_Oh. _

_A light giggle and her finger jabbing him in the ribs, making him scoot closer to the end of the couch. _

_Stop that! _

_Oh? Is Roxas ticklish? _

_No. _

_Another giggle. More fingers and she's wringing helpless laughter from his lips, arms and legs tangled with couch pillows and cushions and each other until he has his hands locked at the small of her back and his lips against hers. _

_That was cheating. _

_No it wasn't. I wanted to kiss you and get you to stop. Two birds, one stone. _

_But you still don't believe me. _

_I just can't believe van Gogh cut off his own ear. _

_No, he just cut off _part _of his ear. _

_That's crazy. _

_He was crazy. _

_A headshake, and he pulls her in for another kiss. _

_Enough about dead artists and ears and crap. _

_She laughs against his chest and he feels warm with something he's terrified might be love. _

Since this has read like a mushy romance novel so far, he figures he should play the part of tragic but supportive boyfriend and force a weak smile to his shaking lips. "Well, good luck out there."

She frowns now, at last, and shifts her satchel with her weight, peering at him almost angrily and what right does she have to that? "Don't say things like that."

"Then don't say things like: 'this is for the best' or 'I have to do this.' You're _leaving. _You _chose _this. Can we … can we just stop pretending?" He closes his eyes against the tears, which are ready for their first major attack. One breaks through and slides down his cheek only to meet a hasty end by the back of his hand.

His eyes float down to the coffee cup gripped in her hand, so tight there are dents in the Styrofoam. It's black, no sugar, no crème, but he doesn't pretend it's some kind of a tribute to him, just a sign of how much she's changed.

"Okay," she says and sounds like she means it.

Maybe there is some place left in her for him, but he doesn't know. There's not enough love in her eyes. They see only distant horizons now and have for quite some time.

"Where are you going?" he asks because the silence has gotten awkward and he's entertaining foolish notions of chasing after her.

"Far away," she replies vaguely and maybe she can see in his head. "To wherever the ocean is."

"There's ocean here."

"It isn't the right kind of ocean." He doesn't ask what she means. He's never quite understood her, more so now than ever.

_What are you saying? _

_I want to travel. See places, paint things. _

_What about college? What about your friends? _

_He doesn't dare ask 'what about me?' because he's afraid he doesn't matter and she's been leaving for a long time, but he was too stupid and in love to notice. _

_School will be here when I get back and my friends will understand. _

_An earnest look, begging him to understand, too. He doesn't. She should realize that by now. He's always been horribly inadequate at things like this. _

_I don't … I don't understand. _

_She smiles, like always, but he doesn't recognize that gentle lift. It doesn't reach her eyes anymore, is all he knows. _

_I have to see for myself, all the things I keep reading about. I've lived in this stupid town my whole life. It's suffocating me, Roxas. _

_I'll go with you. _

_A headshake and this is what a broken heart feels like. _

_No. You have a life here. You're going to become a doctor and cure diseases. remember? _

_That was before you decided to go off to see the world without me! _

_I'll be back. _

_It's a lie. He knows she won't and she knows it, too, but she doesn't change her expression when he glares at her. _

_Have fun out there. _

_The door slams behind him. He doesn't see the tears or her bent shoulders and maybe that's for the best. _

Another train whistle blows and a sun flare from the twilit sky bounces off the surface of an approaching train—her train. It blinds him, but he doesn't cover his eyes. With the sun at her back, she looks like an angel—aloof and unrecognizable. Too brilliant for him to come close.

He should have realized that sooner.

She glances back at the approaching train, sighing so softly he almost misses it. "That's my train."

"Yeah," he echoes in deadpan monotone. She seems a little surprised at his tone. She wouldn't know it, but it was the way he used to speak before he met her—unless he was angry. He wished he could be angry now.

She steps forward suddenly and wraps her arms butterfly soft around his neck, burying her face in the fabric bunched around his collarbone. He's torn between shoving her away and latching onto her so she won't leave—as if he could hold onto her, as if she's ever been his to keep.

_I'm sorry, I didn't see you there! _

_I was wearing a rainbow shirt with a peace sign on the front. How could you have missed me? _

_Well … I. _

_Oh no, you weren't doing _that, _were you? _

_Doing … what? _

_Trying to walk and read at the same time. It never works. _

_A flick of her wrist down to the book lying at his feet and she's so strange and captivating at the same time. _

_It usually works for me. _

_Until you attempt corners. _

_He notices the papers littered around them for the first time and bends to gather them up, stuffing them into a pile. Her hand smacks the back of his, and they go fluttering to the floor again. _

_Ow! What? _

_Be _careful _with those! If they smudge I'll fail my class. _

_Oh, sorry. _

_He lets her pick them up, because it seems safer, and as she kneels down her cobalt blue hair tie catches in the light of the sun. Once she's collected them all, she offers him a small, but somehow bright smile and holds out her hand. _

_I'm Namine. _

She steps back with a light cough and she's spilled coffee, no sugar, on the back of his jacket, but he can't muster up the energy to care. Her hand caresses his cheek once, twice, lingering like she still cares, trying to trick him into hoping she'll stay.

Instead, she touches his lips once and lets her hand fall to her side.

"Do you love me?" he blurts suddenly, and it's stupid and cliché and he wants to bang his head against the lamppost a few feet away, but he's said it and she's shaking her head.

"You don't want me to answer that, Roxas."

The train whistle blows again. One more fleeting touch and just like that she's gone. Two years of his life, walking away into the sea-crowd. His legs won't work enough to give chase. Instead, they turn and run in the opposite direction, tearing out of the train station and down the street, escaping the suffocating sense of farewell and finality.

As the final whistle shrieks and a train pulls out of the station, carrying a girl into a brave new world, a boy sinks into a seat in a familiar café and orders coffee.

He pours copious amounts of crème and sugar in and frantically wipes his eyes.

* * *

_And the words, they're everything and nothing. _

_I want to search for her in the offhand remarks. _

_Who are you, taking coffee, no sugar? _

_Who are you, echoing street signs? _

_Who are you, in the shell of a lover, dark curtains drawn by the passage of time? _

_Oh words, like rain, how sweet the sound …_

"_Well anyway," she says, "I'll see you around." _


End file.
